Brown as Blood is
by IvoryRaven
Summary: When you drop a chicken's egg into a pit of snakes, it is devoured. Right? Wrong. This egg was incubated under a toad, and the basilisk within is about to emerge. It's 1938 and there's a mudblood in Slytherin House.
1. Money, Power, Blood

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, or characters, places, and events you recognise. I am not making money off this writing. JK Rowling owns Harry Potter (she isn't making money off my fanfiction, though) I own any OCs and the plot.

 _Tom goes to Hogwarts. Tom meets purebloods. Tom isn't a pureblood. Surprise!_

I present before you, esteemed Potterhead and Reader of Fanfiction, chapter one of a story so great it will make you cringe and turn away shiver in anticipation for the next installment.

 **Chapter one: Money, Power, Blood**

A line of children, another one. These ones await a House. The ones from before only wanted shelter.

The line flows into a puddle, a stream flowing into an ocean. This ocean is full of sharks, now.

"The spellwork's meant to be really good, but the charms on our Manor are better quality, really," says a blonde-haired boy to one of his companions. "Mother thinks Hogwarts is overrated, and wanted me to go to Beauxbatons like she did. But Father insisted – it does look much better, Father in the British Ministry and myself attending the British school. Gives him a bit more sway."

The boys gathered around him nodded. "I couldn't agree more, Abraxas," said one, dark hair falling in curls around his shoulders. "My own father sent Roxana to Beauxbatons, and Augustus will surely attend Durmstrung."

"Reinhard, is it true that Lady Lestrange is expecting another child?" inquired Abraxas, the blonde boy.

"Twins," Reinhard said. "Perhaps one of them might marry a sibling of yours?"

Abraxas smiled slightly. "I'm afraid those rumors must remain rumors."

A tall wizard appeared, and clapped his hands for their attention. "Please follow me," said Professor Dumbledore kindly, his eyes searching the crowd for one boy in particular, and, when they found him, they narrowed in disapproval.

Tom let himself meld into the line, his head up high and his back straight, as if he had not struggled to purchase second-hand robes – or perhaps they were even third-hand. It was as easy as slipping on a mask, it _was_ yet another mask. He would be a picture-perfect pureblood heir like the others, if he were not a mudblood, if he had expensive boots and acromantula silk robes and an ancient ring on his finger.

The line entered a huge chamber, Tom looked around and was awed, his face was blank. The others were not so good, mouths gaping open and eyes popped wide in wonder. Are they even trying? Blonde Abraxas' face betrayed his own astonishment at the grandness of Hogwarts even as he eyed up Tom's second-hand robes and whispered, 'mudblood.'

The line seemed to evaporate, time moved so fast, and then -

"Riddle, Tom."

He could hear their voices, always, buzzing through the air, cutting through the magic of the place. "Riddle? What kind of name is Riddle?" "And 'Tom,' even worse." "Must be a mudblood." "He'll be no competition come exams, mark my words..."

He'd prove them all wrong. He was brilliant, a prodigy, he could hardly not prove them wrong.

One word echoes in his head again, though. _Mudblood._

The hat brushes his head, and screams, "SLYTHERIN!"

Nobody talks to him during the feast. Headmaster Dippet made a brief speech, and the first-year Slytherins followed Prefect Dagworth-Granger to the common room. The password was _pureblood._

There, Professor Slughorn introduced himself, as well as Head Girl Acietta Meliflua-Black. "I believe your younger sister has come to Hogwarts this year, is that right, Ms. Meliflua-Black?" he asked of her.

"Yes," said Acietta. "She is in Slytherin, the Worthiest of Houses, as are many of my cousins. Hello, Araminta, dear."

"Acietta," said Araminta. She was the loveliest eleven-year-old Tom had ever seen, with beautiful sea-green eyes and a melodious voice.

"Don't forget me!" called a girl from the corner, a few years older than Tom.

"I'll leave you to it, then," said Slughorn, and wandered away to greet returning students.

Acietta looked up to the girl in the corner. "Lucretia, everyone here knows of the noble birth you and I share, and those who don't are inconsequential. Listen up, firsties, this is important. This is Slytherin, not Gryffindor. You have been Sorted into the best of the four Houses at Hogwarts. Inside the Slytherin common room you may do what you will to each other, within reason and so long as you are not breaking any of the rules in the Slytherin Rulebook on the mantlepiece.

"Only the first five entries are rules, all the rest are guidelines that must only be followed if you want to survive. Outside the Slytherin common room we Slytherins are united. No Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, or Gryffindor may know of rivalry between Slytherins. If you need an ally in a house other than Slytherin Ravenclaws are your best option. If you can cultivate loyalty to Slytherin amongst the Hufflepuffs, you may do so."

"Any questions? No? Then I suggest you all go to bed – there is a curfew, after all. Boys, your dorms are up the staircase to the right, girls, left."

Blonde Abraxas lead the way up the stairs. There were three rooms for first-year boys and Tom shared his with Abraxas, the Lestrange boy, and two others. Each bed, Tom found, was ensconced in its own wooden cubicle, but these cubicles were huge and the wood was ancient and ornately carved. There was a door and a gaping window in each, and inside each cubicle there was a vast green and dark-brown four-poster bed with curtains around the edges, a simple desk, chair, and lamp (but even those were fancier than anything Tom had yet seen in his life) and there were glittering lights in the shape of stairs on the ceiling. Tom's trunk was at the food of his bed, with an odd mechanism that definitely wasn't his on top of it. There was a note.

 _No Slytherin should attend class with beaten or broken books. Place any book on this stand and even the most ill-treated books will look new._

 _Regards,_

 _Prof. H. Slughorn, Potions Master and Head of Slytherin House at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry._

"Wizardry," murmured Tom for not the first time. It was real – he was a wizard, he had magic, he was at a private school learning magic.

"Riddle," came a voice from behind him, and Tom turned his head to find that he'd left the door open behind him. Blonde Abraxas stood behind him, leering. "It's been a long time since we had a mudblood in Slytherin."

"You don't know I'm a mudblood," said Tom quietly.

"I don't know you're not," retorted Abraxas. "Riddle isn't even a wizarding name. You could be somebody's bastard, but what self-respecting pureblood would consort with muggles? Even if you aren't a mudblood yourself, you're the son of a mudblood, and that's just as bad. Filthy, a taint on Salazar Slytherin's noble name!"

"Salazar Slytherin," drawled Tom. "Famous parselmouth, Founder of Slytherin House?"

"The very same," sneered Abraxas. "But – how does a mudblood like you know what a parselmouth is?"

"I can read, Abraxas."

"Call me Malfoy!" snapped Abrax- Malfoy, bristling. "Or just shut up!" With that final comment, Malfoy stormed out.

Tom shut the door before turning to his trunk once again. He set the book restoration device (it had not come with a label telling him the proper name) on his desk, then pulled his textbooks – second-hand, all of them – from his trunk. He caressed the first, a well-worn-tome, with several suspicious purple-brown stains on the cover and sides of the pages, before setting it on the device.

Golden light enveloped the book, and it began to glow a delicate shade of rose, before fading away altogether, leaving a clean copy of _The Ancient Art of Battle Magics_ on the device, no trace of the stains or the tears Tom's fingers had just brushed over.

Quickly, he set to restoring the rest of his books – it wouldn't do at all to appear less than careful with the valuable texts required for attendance at Hogwarts. Then, curious, he shrugged out of his school robe, bundled it up and placed it on the restoration device. The light surrounded it, faded, and the robe emerged looking just as good as new; just as good as the acromantula silk robes the other boys wore. He repeated the process with all his articles of clothing, right down to his shoes.

Tom laid his wand on the small table next to his bed, stacked his books on his desk, and retired for the night.

 _Tom dreamed of great serpents and a never-ending corridor, a man and a woman at the end, and a manor-house on a hill, of huddling in a bomb shelter, of being crammed into a tiny space, of being Tom._

Tom dreamed of lots of things, and wished for many things, too, and when he woke he desired to be a true Slytherin, and worried he was not.

Tom showered under cold water, and appeared in the common room a few minutes later, dressed smartly in his school uniform. The common room was empty but for Tom and the Head Girl, who was curled up in an armchair reading a book, and when she saw Tom she smiled. "The first first-year up. You must be Tom Riddle."

"You know who I am because I'm the only one you haven't meant before," he said. "Don't you."

"I do," she agreed. "I hope to get to know you better over the course of the next year."

Tom frowned. "But I'm a mudblood."

"Of course you're not a mudblood," said the Head Girl. "You are in Slytherin, after all. There is a reason you're here, and it's not to be Malfoy's exercise bag. Araminta was quite enchanted by you last night, Riddle."

It seemed as soon as the Head Girl spoke her name Araminta appeared. "Riddle," she said.

"Meliflua-Black," Tom said.

"You know my name," said Araminta.

"You know mine," Tom returned.

There was an uncomfortable silence, until Araminta broke it. "Please, call me Araminta."

"Then you must call me Tom."

Araminta blushed pink. "Tom. It seemed such an ugly, common name just yesterday, but you are neither – why, I think the name has become elegant and lovely by virtue of you having it."

"Oh, thank you, Araminta, but your name is ever so lovely, much more than mine ever could be," said Tom.

"I hate to interrupt the mating song of the lovebirds, but it is breakfast-time. Tom, wake the other first year boys, Araminta, wake the girls," said the Head Girl.

Tom climbed back up the stairs to the dormitories, calling through the doors, "wake up! Wake up, or you will be hungry!"

Loud complaints followed him back down the stairs to the common room, along with the occasional slur. A number of boys told him to 'go away, you filthy mudblood' but he figured he'd done the job.

Sure enough, twenty minutes later a group of disgruntled first-years, hair in disarray around their faces, stumbled blearily into the common room to join their older housemates, who'd gathered there in twos and threes.

"Please arrange yourselves according to year before we all walk down to breakfast. Seventh years in front, then sixth years, then fifth years, you get the picture. First years, you are last. You are responsible for staying with the group and not getting lost. All lined up? Good – follow me." The Head Girl stood in front of the line of students. Tom ended up pushed to the back, on the grounds that 'mudbloods go last.' Tom didn't disagree.

When the Slytherins filed into the Great Hall, their line split two ways, and they sat in age order with the seventh-years the closest to the professors, and the first-years the furthest away. "I'll be King soon," Tom heard Malfoy promise Lestrange, "and then we'll be up there."

"Suppose I wanted to be King?" Lestrange asked.

"I suppose you'd be eating your breakfast in the hospital wing, then," replied Malfoy, and he and Lestrange laughed.

"Boys," muttered the girl Tom was sitting next to. "Especially Malfoys and Lestranges – they think they're so great."

"They are powerful pureblood families," Tom reminded her.

"French pureblood families. We're in Britain, so my family has more power in Ministry matters. I'm Cassiopeia Black. The Malfoys, and Lestranges, and the Rosiers all came to Britain during the Conquest. The Blacks, however, emerged as a prominent Wizarding family after the Romans fell – Perseus the Black was a Roman soldier, a wizard of uncertain birth, and he had many children with many different wives. Most of his sons' lines died out after Lacerta Black, a young girl at the time, was fooling around with potions and accidentally created the Black Plague, and the only Blacks remaining today are the descendants of Perseus' son Auriga."

"How fascinating," said Tom.

"In fact," continued Cassiopeia, "I am named after Lacerta – Cassiopeia Lacerta Black. So who are you."

"I'm coming to Hogwarts under the name Tom Riddle," said Tom. "Say, what do you know about Salazar Slytherin's line?"

"Salazar Slytherin was one of the Hogwart's Founders. He had a son and a daughter, and for hundreds of years they were very rich, and very famous, and every one could speak Parseltongue, the-"

"Language of snakes?"

"Yes. The name disappeared when the only child of the current Lord Slytherin, a daughter, married a Guant. The line disappeared a hundred or so years ago when Gaunts stopped coming to Hogwarts. Two of the three last Gaunts are dead – Marvolo and his daughter… Mary, it might be. And nobody's contacted the last one in years."

"You seem to know a lot about Wizarding families," commented Tom.

"Oh yes! We Blacks start learning this stuff as toddlers!" Cassiopeia grinned. "So why are you asking about Slytherin."

Tom smiled. "I'm a parselmouth myself."

Cassiopeia's mouth fell open in shock. "You! Oh, that's wonderful! Are you engaged to anyone yet? You'll have to come around for tea one day, Mother and Father would love to meet you!"

"I'd love to meet the rest of your family," said Tom.

Araminta had switched seats and was now on Tom's other side. "I'm not engaged either, Tom," she said.

"Riddle wouldn't marry you," Cassiopeia said haughtily. "You're a bit… impure."

"I'm not marrying anyone," said Tom, "at least not right now, and if one of you rips the other's throat out I won't be marrying either of you."

"I never said anything about marriage!" said Araminta indignantly. Cassiopeia rolled her eyes and turned away to spread butter on her croissant. Tom finished his breakfast in silence.


	2. And For All Her Silliness

I don't own Harry Potter.

 _Chapter Two_

 **And For All Her Silliness**

Tom finished his breakfast and pulled out his schedule. The first class was Herbology with Professor Beery, and Ravenclaw House. When he got there, he was the first Slytherin in the room – although he was not, by far, the first student there. The Ravenclaws were sitting on benches around a center table in the greenhouse the class was held in, and each and every one of them was reading from the textbook. Deciding it was a good idea to refresh his knowledge of the subject (he had tried to memorise all the textbooks before reaching Hogwarts) he pulled out his own book, _Studying Herbolology: A Student Edition_ by Richard Huckle.

By the time the most of Slytherin House had arrived, Tom was engaged in conversation with a group of Ravenclaws, discussing the best usages of plants in combat. He was explaining the precise function of the Fire Bush in battle to the attentive group of erudite students when one of his Housemates snatched his textbook and started thumbing through it. "Looks like our resident muggle should, in fact, be in Ravenclaw!" the boy sneered. "But you can't be a Ravenclaw without books, so he'll just have to go back to his muggle town… I bet even the muggles don't want him, he'll be sent to an orphanage and they'll toss 'im on the streets. Good-bye, Riddle!" He attempted in vain, several times, to tear Tom's book – Tom's magically restored book.

"How are you doing that?" he asked. "Tell me!"

Tom smirked. "My book, my secrets."

"You're just trying to – foul muggle – filthy mudblood – euugh, I hate you!"

"Come off it, Goyle," said a boy with a strangely melodic, slow voice. "Leave my Lord alone."

"And who are you?" demanded the first boy. "And what's all this 'my Lord' business?"

"Rosier," said the second, still slow, still melodic - "Cassius Rosier. My Lord," he turned to Tom, "I, Cassius Lucius Rosier, do swear my magical allegiance to you." Cassius took Tom's hand, and Tom's eyes followed the blue veins though his wrist to his forearm.

"I accept," he said.

There was a flash of light, and Tom felt something settling over him, a tie, a rope connecting Cassius' magical energy to his own. He tugged it, quickly, experimentally, and Cassius' whole body jerked towards him. "Whatever did you do that for?" he asked.

"The Rosier blood has long lain asleep, but in me it awakens," said Cassius. "I am the brother of the mother of the blue-eyed girl, and she is close to you."

"Who is the blue-eyed girl?" Tom asked.

"Sometimes, she comes," said Cassius. "Sometimes, she is not. Sometimes, you raise her. Sometimes, you die before she is born."

"But who is she?" Tom reiterated.

"The blue-eyed girl," said Cassius, "a dolphin, although perhaps to you, she is a finder of fates."

"Sometimes," continued Cassius, "she is a boy. Sometimes you love her. Sometimes you kill her."

"Kill her?" asked Tom.

"Oh yes. Abraxas and Reinhard will turn up just as my name is called. So, my Lord, I am your loyal servant – when and how do we take over the world?"

Tom laughed. "We start with paying attention in class, because Professor Beery has just walked in."

Professor Beery had, indeed, just walked in. The class fell silent. "Say 'here' when you hear your name," he instructed. "Araminta Meliflua-Black."

"Here."

"Abraxas Malfoy."

There was a silence.

"All right, no Malfoy. Autumn Smith."

"Here."

"Bianca L'Arbre."

"Here."

"Cassius Rosier- oh, so now you show up! You should have been here five minutes ago like the rest of the class." scolded Professor Beery.

Malfoy gave a lazy smirk. "A Malfoy is always fashionably late."

"A Lestrange, too," added his companion.

Professor Beery frowned. "Mr. Lestrange, you should be setting an example for your young brother Augustus, not wasting your time in being 'fashionably late.' To think, a world run by men who think this is appropriate! That will be the world your future children will grow up in, young sirs and madams."

"Augustus follows me everywhere," commented Lestrange. "At home, at school – can I not just be Reinhard?"

"You are the heir to a powerful family, Mr. Lestrange," said Professor Beery, "and you should be having this talk with your Head of House, not me."

Lestrange nodded, and he and Malfoy slid into line. Professor Beery watched them go, then returned to taking attendance. "Cassiopeia Black?"

"Here!"

When the Professor had checked everyone was there, he began the lesson. "We will start with a few safety tips. Split into groups of two and make a list of everything you think is vital to staying safe while working with magical plants."

Cassiopeia thrust through the crowd of students, and latched onto Tom's arm. "You'll work with me!" she declared triumphantly.

Tom pulled out a sheet of paper. "Do not eat unknown plants."

"Magical plants," corrected Cassiopeia.

"Plants," insisted Tom. "There are plenty of non-magical poisonous plants."

Cassiopeia inclined her head. "I suppose. How about 'do not touch or approach unknown plants."

Tom wrote it down. When they had amassed a list of ten 'safety tips' for Professor Beery, he asked the question that had been dancing on the tip of his tongue for a great many minutes. "Say Cassiopeia… we could form a club, of sorts."

"What kind of club?" she asked.

"Oh, well, a study group, and we'd practice and learn new spells together, too."

She nodded. "That's something I'd do."

"Well, then, think you could promote it a bit? We'll have to ask permission to use an empty classroom, of course – and our Housemates don't seem to like me much, so we'll have to get students from the other Houses in on it, too."

"All right," she agreed.

"Riddle! Black!" snapped Professor Beery. "This doesn't sound like Herbology. Tell me, Riddle, the name of a plant useful in combat and how it's useful."

"The Fire Bush, Professor," said Tom, "it spits flames when it feels threatened, and spontaneously bursts into flames every half-hour. Fire Bushes can be planted in lines to keep back enemy troops, or they can be hurled at the enemy from a catapult. Fire Bush aren't harmed by this, as when they land on the ground their roots tunnel into it. Fire Bushes were discovered several hundred years ago by Aurelias Black, renowned Herbology prodigy, when he was six years old."

"Very good, Mr. Riddle. Ten – no, twenty! Twenty points to Slytherin for that excellent answer. Ms. Black, how do you get rid of Devil's Snare?"

Cassiopeia blushed and looked down. "I don't know, sir," she muttered.

"What was that?" asked Professor Beery.

"I don't know, sir," said Cassiopeia, louder this time.

"I do, sir," said Tom.

Professor Beery turned to Tom. "Well then? Let's hear it."

"Light. Devil's Snare recoils from light."

"Five points to Slytherin, Mr. Riddle. And Ms. Black, five points from Slytherin for talking during the lesson when you so clearly need to pay attention."

Cassiopeia glared at the rust-coloured plank floor as the rest of the class snickered. Tom smiled sympathetically, although he wasn't fool enough to reassure her verbally. She was, he thought, a silly little girl – but a useful little girl. And for all her silliness her blood ran red, and for all her red blood she was still an innocent little girl.

After Herbology was Transfiguration with Professor Dumbledore. Reinhard Lestrange practically threw himself inside the classroom and into a chair, and when Malfoy tried to sit beside him Lestrange moved to the back of the room. Tom, who was sitting at the front, bent down to pull out his textbook, and as he did he eyed them carefully. Malfoy looked as if he were about to leap up and chase after Lestrange, a clumsy kangaroo following a windblown blade of grass, but Dumbledore suddenly appeared behind him.

"Boo!" said Dumbledore.

Tom looked away as the Slytherins and Ravenclaws snapped their heads around, some with audible cracks, to see what had happened. Dumbledore beamed at the group, before bumbling to the front of the room. "Transfiguration," he intoned, "the art of turning things into other things quickly and with magic. Yes, Ms. Smith?"

Autumn Smith twirled her hair anxiously as she asked, "can you turn things into other things without magic?"

"Ms L'Arbre," Dumbledore said. "Answer Ms. Smith's question."

Bianca L'Arbre swallowed. "Yes, you can turn things into other things – for example, cooking – in a chemical reaction, but Transfiguration is entirely magical because it uses the forced of magic to find something made of the material you want and completely switches the two substances. Transfigurations can fail if you're not visualising something clearly enough because the magic can't find the proper thing."

"Excellent," said Dumbledore, looking and sounding impressed, "most excellent indeed. Take ten points for Ravenclaw. Everybody else, you should be writing this down."

Bianca glowed with pride, and the sound of rustling parchment soon floated to the roof above, where an osprey was devouring a fat rat.

With Autumn's question out of the way, Dumbledore began the lesson. "You will note, I hope, the matchstick on the workspace in front of you. You have your want with you. Transfigure the matchstick into a needle."

That was it? No 'how do perform Transfigurations and not die in the process' or any sort of instruction in actually Transfiguring the matchstick? Tom huffed, pulling out his wand and pointing it in a stubborn sort of way at the matchstick. Be a needle, he thought, and imagined, eyes scrunched shut, a silver needle where the matchstick was, with a pointed end, half a milimeter wide at the other, and five centimeters long. Silver, pointy, deadly – how could one kill with a needle?- silver, pointy, sharp, carbon steel wire, 7.83g/cm3, nickle-plated to protect it, Ni, atomic number 28.

Tom opened his eyes and there was a needle sitting in front of him, calm as anything, like it never was a matchstick in the first place. "Cor!" exclaimed the boy sitting next to him, "Riddle's done it already!"

"Well done, Mr. Riddle," said Dumbledore. The Slytherins waited expectantly, until -

"Well?" asked Lestrange.

"Well?" replied Dumbledore in kind.

Lestrange straightened his back and stared at the Professor. "Aren't you going to award him points? Quite impressive, don't you think, mastering it on his first try?"

At this point, several Ravenclaws were nodding along. "I agree," said Bianca L'Arbre. "You awarded me points for my answer – go on, it's only fair."

"I disagree," said Dumbledore, quite mildly. "And after all, I am the Professor, so my opinion matters most of all."

Lestrange's jaw set, and Bianca frowned. "But that's not fair at all!" she exploded, and Tom wondered if the Sorting Hat hadn't considered Hufflepuff for her. "Give him points, Professor Dumbledore, his Transfiguration was perfect!"

"I agree with Professor Dumbledore," said Malfoy. "It's not that impressive. Not worth points."

Bianca's jaw fell open. "But Malfoy, he's in your House! Show some support!"

Malfoy shrugged. "I just don't think bastards belong in Slytherin. Least of all muggle ones. And my House, Bianca L'Arbre, is the Noble House of Malfoy, to which I am sure that… oh, Riddle, was it? Yes it was! To which I am sure that _Riddle_ does not belong."

"Oh, you think you're so important, Malfoy!" spat Cassiopeia, leaping from her chair. "I challenge you to a wizard's duel, here and now! Let's settle this for good!"

"I accept!" snarled Malfoy. "It's hardly as if a little _girl_ could beat a man."

"You're no man!" Cassiopeia said fiercely. "And you'll never be half the man _he_ will be. Do you know who he is?"

"No, I don't know who, and I don't much care. He could be the next King of England and I couldn't care less, so just… _tais-toi, je n'en fou!"_

"You'll know who," said Cassiopeia bitterly, and stiffly, she bowed to Malfoy, who dipped his head in return, a sour look on his face.

" _Expelliarmus!"_ cast Cassiopeia.

" _Protego! Expelliarmus!"_

" _Gryffindorish rage, break this Malfoy's cage, let the powers of gravity ,release and let him fly free!"_ screeched Cassiopeia, twirling her wand furiously.

Nothing happened.

She flushed. "Perhaps not _all_ the spells Cygnus taught me are real."

"Stop, stop, stop," said Professor Dumbledore at last. "Hogwarts students can't enter into magical contracts of the ordinary kind on school grounds."

"Ordinary kind?" asked Briana L'Arbre.

"Light, Grey, or Neutral magic," Dumbledore answered. "Their duel was never legitimate, so the failure to fight until disarmed or dead won't have any ill effect on them."

"Know a lot about Dark magic, do you, Professor?" asked the boy sitting besides Tom. "I heard that's why you're not fighting Grindelwald – you support him."

"Children!" snapped Dumbledore, suddenly looking furious. "You are here to learn Transfiguration, not gossip about myself and Gellert Grindelwald. Detention, Mr. Nott!"

Nott looked mutinous, but he didn't argue. Dumbledore twirled around and sat at his desk, staring straight ahead into space. Tom focused on adding detail to his needle – shaping the eye, making it wider.


	3. Skeletons Will Lie

No, I still don't own Harry Potter. If I did... let's not think about that. It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live, according to Dumbledore.

Reviews, follows, and favourites are much appreciated!

 **Skeletons Will Lie**

After Transfiguration came Charms, after Charms came lunch. Everyone was there, Tom noted, except the girl from the corner of the Slytherin common room the night before – Lucretia. Lucretia – who calls their child Toilet-etia? He turned to Araminta, seated beside him, to find her focused on attacking the sandwich she held. "Araminta," he said, but she was chewing and did answer. Resigned, he looked around the table for more oddities. Lestrange was there, but as far away from Malfoy as he could be without breaking what appeared to be a rule to the Slytherins. Cassius Rosier, the boy who had pledged himself to Tom, was reading a text Tom could not – the pages appeared blank. He wondered if perhaps the peculiar boy had some sort of sight normal wizards did not – or perhaps it was just that mudbloods did not.

Tom swallowed. Was he not a proper wizard? It was possible, even likely, given the attitudes of young wizards like Malfoy, who'd grown up in the wizarding world and thus were sure to know much more about it than Tom did, or ever would – even if he spent many more days than he already had huddled in the corner of Flourish and Blotts, fervently taking notes.

 _Riddle._ It was _Riddle,_ the problem, now, not _Tom._ Riddle was a muggle, Tom was a commoner – taken together, the worst of both worlds, he was Tom Riddle, common muggle.

"Good job on your Transfiguration, by the way," said someone from behind him. Tom jumped, and spun around. It was Accetia, Head Girl and Araminta's sister. She, Tom remembered, was a Black – did that make her more powerful than him? "I heard about it from Nott," she continued. Nott, he remembered, the boy who'd challenged Dumbledore. "I was so impressed, I awarded Slytherin twenty points in your honour – ten for your work, and ten because Dumbledore didn't give you any at all."

"Thank you," said Tom.

"Think nothing of it," she said.

Next to appear was Cassiopeia. "Fifty points on your first day!" she enthused. "If you would like to review the portion of my letter to Mother about you, I will leave a copy in your dormitory."

"Oh," said Tom. "Oh. Um. Yes, yes, please do that, thank you."

Cassiopeia frowned. "I'll be writing a letter to one of my tutors, too, about a few sessions for you. You aren't a very good fit for Slytherin House, Tom Riddle."

"Can I review that one, too?" Tom inquired.

"Of course," said Cassiopeia. "You could file a lawsuit for slander if it weren't approved."

"What!"

"And it would go before the Wizengamot, as well, because of who I am, so you ought not do that. That's why you need to see a tutor immediately – you don't know any of this stuff! Everybody else does! You don't!"

"Yes, thank you for your kind assessment, which was so considerate as to my own feelings on the matter," drawled Tom. "How thoughtful of you."

Cassiopeia looked pensive for a moment, before speaking again. "There was another reason for my sudden appearance."

"Oh?"

"Professor Slughorn wants to see you after Potions in his office."

"Does he, now? Why?"

"Don't ask me, I'm not pulling the strings behind this particular puppet. It might be for the same reason I'm writing Mr. Rookwood about you."

"Which is?"

"You just don't mesh with the rest of us, Tom. Like you're meant to rule the world. Or like you're meant to be a house elf."

Tom didn't know what a house elf was, and hypothesized that if he asked Cassiopeia what one was, she would only sigh and tell him his not knowing was just another sign he didn't belong.

In Potions they brewed a Revitalizing Draught. Tom's potion came out a perfect shade of rose, and Professor Slughorn was thrilled. "Look's like we've got a budding Potions Master here," he chuckled as he bottled Tom's creation. "I expect you'll pass your T.O.A.D.S with all Os, too!"

Tom smiled. "I should hope so, sir."

"On this happy note in the history of Potion-making, class dismissed," said Slughorn, and all but two members of the class filed slowly out.

Tom sat in front of his now empty cauldron, and got out a cloth to wipe it down. "Oh, don't bother with that, boy," said Slughorn. "What are you, muggle? _Scourgify!_ Now wait here for a moment whilest I talk with young Mr. Lestrange over here."

Reinhard Lestrange was staring rather furiously at the floor. Tom pulled out a book to read while Lestrange and Slughorn vanished into Slughorn's office, and only looked up twenty minutes later when Lestrange came storming out.

"Are you saying it's my fault!" screamed Lestrange, slamming the door to the Potions classroom as he left.

A few moments later, Slughorn came out, looking rather frazzled. "Ah, Tom," he said. "You are an unusual case."

"Do forgive me for not being in Gryffindor, sir," said Tom. "I don't like the colour red much."

Slughorn chuckled. "Yes, a boy with your blood status in Slytherin. Nobody would have imagined it could ever happen, but nevertheless, it did. And you, Mr. Riddle, are going to need all the help you can get."

"An acquaintance told me."

"The are a few things you should know about Slytherin, my boy. There is a hierarchy, a ladder in Slytherin and it is climbed by being the child of someone important, by having friends in high places, and being exceptionally talented. You, Riddle, are exceptionally talented, and with a bit of work you could have friends in high places."

"Should I want friends in high places?" asked Tom, knowing he did. Slughorn seemed to know, too, for he didn't bother to answer, or even speak again. Tom left.

Cassius was waiting outside.

"You should be careful," he said, in his odd, lilting way."Talented you may be, but you are new to our world, alone and friendless. Even the greatest of predators can be brought down by a large enough mob of ants."

"I'll squash as many as I can then," said Tom.

"Some may mistake you for an ant, and squash you." warned Cassius.

"I shall grow claws and large teeth."

Cassius shook his head. "Is there nothing I can say to convince you not to?"

"I'm going to accomplish something – change the world, summ'at like that. Don't like it, go away and die in a hole."

"What sort of hole?" asked Cassius.

"A wormhole," Tom told him. "Your skeleton will lie in the wormhole forever."

"At least I won't be forced to tell the truth," sighed Cassius. "I don't think I could stand _that,_ of all punishments imaginable."

"Oh, this isn't a punishment," recited Tom, from the many times it had been told him, "it's just the logical consequence of your actions."

"Logical consequence?" Cassius raised his eyebrows. "Where did you hear that!" Tom pulled out his wand, and, using the Charm they had learnt earlier in the day, send the sword from a knight's hand to chase after Cassius, who ran away shrieking. Tom, plastering an unconcerned look on his face, followed after several minutes, amusement bubbling beneath his skin like water welling up from the ground in Bath.

That, is, amusement was bubbling beneath his skin until Cassiopeia Black, the infernal menace, popped up behind with with a prompt, "that expression needs serious work!"

"You ought not criticize other people when you're as childish and – and as terribly impulsive – as yourself!" snapped Tom.

Cassiopeia drew back. "Why!" she exclaimed. "How rude. I assure you, I am not impulsive, and anyway, it is acceptable and cute to be childlike until you're thirteen in polite pureblood society."

"I said child _ish,_ not child _like_ , and that's because everyone who gets to dictate the rules is crazy."

That got her. She scowled something awful before letting loose a string of curses he was certain nobody in polite society of any sort would condone, and, drawing back her arm, let her fist collide with his face in a moment of avenging her own hurt they could both feel fizzing through the air – and a sickening crunch.

Tom collapsed to the floor, seeing bright celestial bodies swimming in the air, and Cassiopeia, slightly horrified, slightly amused, ran back the other way.

Tom lay on the ground for, how much time, he could not tell, but it seemed liked an eternity. His nose, especially, felt like it was being attacked by an angry swarm of bees, each one shrieking at him in Cassiopeia's own voice, telling him he did not belong at Hogwarts, that he would eventually flee back to the muggle world where he so clearly belonged – if he belonged there at all, given, they added, that his father had not wanted him ('he's coming to adopt me one day, I know it!' Tom insisted, but they weren't convinced) and his mother had not wanted him, and his grandparents – he must have had four, and he knew he had an uncle, for many a time Mrs. Cole had grumbled about the young woman his mother had been - 'barely fifteen, certain, and mumbling all the while about her brother, an ugly brute he sounded, how he'd be so disappointed in her' adding something along the lines of 'I would have felt sorry for her, pitiful thing that she was, if she had not brought you here, Tom' when talking to or about Tom himself.

Tom laughed, and once again banged his nose, and the pain came rushing back. Mournfully he wondered what he would look like with no nose at all – a reporter might take a picture, and he'd end up in the Daily Prophet as 'muggleborn boy couldn't find the right platform, loses nose.' He cringed at the very thought of it. Tom did not think himself vain, just concerned with those things prospective parents cared about. One's academic performance (not that _that_ would do him any good, he'd have no record at all of education beyond primary school on the muggle books), one's appearance – Cutest First, was the cry of the pushier pre-teenagers, desperate to escape, and one's personality. Perhaps Cassiopeia's tutor could help him, after all.

He began to hear the wind whistling outside the castle, and the chatter of students in the castle below, and wondered what it was he was missing. Transfiguration. Charms. Lunch. Potions. What class had he not had? It had to be Defense Against the Dark Arts - a shame, really, he'd been looking forwards to Defense.

"Riddle?" said a voice all of a sudden.

Tom kicked his legs and flopped his arms and hoped whoever it was knew he was responding.

"Good Merlin, whatever has happened to you? There's magical residue all over you – you've been attacked, and pretty severely. Ah well, only one thing for it. _Wingardium Leviosa!"_

Tom found himself being lifted into the air by Horace Slughorn, and subsequently floated along, all the way to the hospital wing. It was a glorious feeling, flying, and the only thing missing was that Tom himself was not controlling it.

"Who was with you, when you were attacked?" asked Slughorn, but Tom found he could not open his mouth to answer. Slughorn shook his head sadly. "Probably a Gryffindor; they're known for their rather open, blatent hatred of Slytherins. That'll be two hundred points from Gryffindor, and I'd better report this to Kowalski..."

Tom was laid on a bed, where the matron of the hospital wing, Madame Carsley, attacked him with diagnostic spells. "Not good," she said, and his interest was piqued - "not good at all, this case is once-in-a-lifetime… might have to call St. Mungo's… Dark magic, very Dark magic… permanent disability… oh, dear, you'd better have a pain-relieving potion…!"

She snapped into action, mixing fluids from several different vials she pulled from a shelf. She seemed to stop as she returned to Tom, sighing, "I don't like to do this," she told Tom, "but I don't want to risk disfiguring your face forever. This will be less harmful – of course, you being only eleven might just be fuel to the fire – ah well, best just do it quickly, keep you alive and in the least pain possible for as long as we can – _motum fluidi!"_

The liquid in the vial she held had vanished, and Tom felt a sudden wrenching pain in his stomach before everything went numb.

"It's taken, I see," she said as Tom's body flopped down, limp and useless, his eyes still darting around the room, wide with fear. He could not control his own limbs no matter how hard he tried.

"Is there anything I can do?" asked Slughorn. "I can call Head Healer Zabini – he was a student of mine and a dear friend."

"Yes, yes, that would be helpful," said Madame Carsley distractedly as she searched through drawers and cupboards, looking for who knew what.

Minutes later she was ushering a tall, black man with into the hospital wing. "Coated in the stuff, you say?" he was asking her.

"Oh yes, absolutely," she agreed.

"That sounds like the Deterioration Curse," said Head Healer Zabini. "Very illegal – whoever used it will be sentenced to lifetime in Azkaban." He had kind eyes, Tom thought, as Head Healer Zabini zapped Tom with his own diagnostic spells. "Yes," said the Head Healer after a few moments, "it's definitely the Deterioration Curse. The only way to cure… whatever this is completely will be with a supercharged Revitalizing Draught – elementary potion, of course, but supercharged with the magical signature of whoever cursed him – what criminal would try to save their victim. I'll have to run a few tests but my estimate is that this boy doesn't have any more than a few years left even if you could rectify all physical damage. The curse is magical in nature, it will cling to his magical reservoirs as a parasite."

Both Slughorn and Madame Carsley were growing paler by the second. "You mean to say he'll die?" Slughorn asked.

Head Healer Zabini nodded sadly. "I'm afraid so."

Suddenly Cassiopeia burst through the double doors, a fear engraved on her face. When she saw Tom, squashed and limp, the fear turned to flat-out horror. "I didn't mean it!"

"You, Ms. Black?" asked Slughorn, horrified. "You are eleven years old! Whatever possessed you to cause your Housemate such harm? The Deterioration Curse is extremely Dark magic, and it's highly illegal."

"The Deterioration Curse?" Cassiopeia gasped. "Oh, no, all I did was punch him… I didn't mean for..."

"Relax, Ms. Black," said Head Healer Zabini. "If it truly wasn't you a sample of the magical aspect of the curse will prove your innocence. Madame Carsley?"

Madame Carsley nodded and quickly placed a funnel-shaped device above Tom's head. Some sort of dark, coiling, wraithlike _thing_ floating up into the device, which morphed into an enclosed glass ball. Letters appeared above it as Madame Carsley held it – C, then A, then S – eventually spelling out _Cassiopeia Lacerta Black._

Cassiopeia's face fell. "I swear it wasn't me!" she insisted. "I'll take veritaserum to prove it, I will, and I haven't had access to contraserum – I was in Defence Against the Dark Arts, and I've been at school since yesterday, and the rule for contraserum is one dose lasts one hour, and I swear I didn't do it!"

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to call the Aurors," said Head Healer Zabini.

"But it'll be on my record forever!" protested Cassiopeia.

"If you had been worried about that, you wouldn't have cast the Deterioration Curse on Mr. Riddle, here, would you ,Ms. Black?" Slughorn said.

Cassiopeia's face screwed up. "Oh, what have I done! Mother will kill me, she will – Merlin, Father! Father will be furious! I will not be allowed to continue Hogwarts, I'll be expelled, I know I will, and they'll find a way to put me in Azkaban! Life! Oh, no no no no, this can't be happening, it just cannot, but it is, oh, they will be angry! So angry! If I do not get life or a sentence at all I'll be the shame of the family, I'll be married off as soon as possible to some lowly… lowly wizard, a Burke, perhaps… if anyone will take me at all! I am useless now, useless, with a score in my record like this one, nobody will accept me ever again, there goes ever getting a position at the Ministry, or… oh, Araminta, she will laugh! How she will laugh and tease me and mock me! And oh, Tom! I have so grievously wronged you, how can you ever forgive me? I was angry, Tom, but I never would have wanted this to happen to you! Can you understand? Is there a chance – oh, no, of course there is not, but of course, I will be arrested, it is terrible, I am sorry, Tom!"

The Aurors arrived, then, dressed in crimson robes, to handcuff her and drag her away. Through the door, Tom glimpsed most of the Hogwarts population being shoved aside to make way for Ministry officials of all sorts. Auror trainees followed the Aurors at a distance, peering in front of them to catch a glimpse of the girl who had cast the Deterioration Curse; the girl who was to be imprisoned for life. It was an exciting case, and quite a few could be heard asking around for a Pensieve they could use to watch the memory again. Reporters snapped pictures and asked questions of the students, asked for interviews with the professors and asked 'what happened anyway?' even as they were escorted one-by-one off the premises. Even the Minister of Magic herself arrived, a powerful witch with several bodyguards and a silver-plated wand holster on her arm. "Alert the Inter-Species Relations office." she commanded. "It is likely the girl will be given the Dementor's Kiss."

In the midst of the chaos Head Healer Zabini turned to Madame Carsley. "The girl! If she regrets the crime she may very will agree to infuse a Revitalizing Draught with her magical signature, and the boy may be healed!"

"Might a Revitalizing Draught she brewed herself this morning work?" Slughorn asked.

"No," said Head Healer Zabini. "The magic must enter the potion after the potion's own inherent magic has settled."

"That takes two hours – the first years brewed Revitalizing Draught around two hours ago now, and Tom's potion – this is Tom, by the way – his potion was perfect!"

"Then you must fetch it immediately. We've got to get the girl back here!"

Cassiopeia. They were going to bring Cassiopeia back. Tom thought that was rather odd, given that she had caused the problem in the first place, probably with nonverbal spell-casting, he'd read about that on one of those days spent huddled in the corner of Flourish and Blotts. _An Introduction to Magic,_ the book he'd read it in had been called. Athough perhaps – perhaps it wasn't quite her fault, perhaps she was as innocent as she could be, if, as Healer Zabini had said – but no, no, Cassiopeia had done something to him and it was killing him, she deserved death. It had to have been on purpose.

Head Healer Zabini had sprinted across to the doorway, and was speaking frantically with the Minister, who waved her want and a sparkling lioness appeared, powerful and wise. The lioness bounded away, and the Minister nodded to Head Healer Zabini. "We will save him," she promised. "This parasite – I was rather interested in Healing myself, as I'm, sure you remember, Tobias, and I have never heard of a case where the parasite was quite as active as this."

"It's all very unusual," said Head Healer Zabini. "I think it might be the excessive amount of magic the boy has – he's very powerful, and the parasite is feeding on that power and becoming engorged with it, spreading itself further in a much shorter length of time. I had, at first, given the boy years to live, but now I'd say it's more like days. Perhaps even hours. If he dies, it'll be a tragic loss to the wizarding world – with the amount of magic he has, imagine the feats he could accomplish! He'll go on to do great things, I'm sure – if only he lives to see next week."

"How terribly sad," said the Minister. "What a loss. No, you are quite right, we cannot allow such a thing to happen. Entropy, they say, is supposed to increase – if this is the current level, where will we be next century? Time travel, perhaps, the upset of multiple timelines?"

"You'll have to ask the Department of Mysteries about that one," said Head Healer Zabini. "Rosier is their Department Head, as I'm sure you know, and he always has something up his sleeve."

The Minister's silver lioness returned, with a cluster of Aurors not far behind, and in the middle of it all was Cassiopeia. Walking behind them, carrying a standard Potions vial, was Professor Slughorn. The procession marched through the crowd and into the hospital wing. Cassiopeia looked terrible, tear tracks stained her cheeks from her reddened eyes to her jawline. One of the Aurors murmured something to her, cast _Silencio_ on her, and handed her a wand, and Slughorn held out the Potions vial, and she pointed the wand at the vial, frowning in concentration.

Sparks whizzed from the end of the wand into the vial, and she collapsed limp on the ground. "Magical exhaustion," Healer Zabini reassured the room after checking her vitals – not that anyone would have cared if she, a criminal, died.

Madame Carsley performed the odd spell again, but this time – the pain-relieving potion still being active – it didn't hurt – and then -

He woke abruptly, to find Madame Carsley's wand pointed at him. "You have to stay awake," she said. "Quick – the Skel-E-Gro – yes, that's it, there -" and Slughorn handed her a bottle labeled _Skel-E-Gro,_ with a picture of a broken bone on it. Once again, she performed the spell – _motum fluidi –_ on a spoonful of the sickly-looking stuff, and once again, it vanished. "Get the others," she said, and Slughorn reached for the other bottles on the shelf the Skel-E-Gro had been on, Tiss-U-Gro and the rather less catchily titled Magical Restorative Aide: Vari Loquebantur's Secret Recipe.

Madame Carsley performed _motum fluidi_ on both of them, before instructing Slughorn to put them back where they belonged. Tom's ever-moving eyes watched their every movement. Head Healer Zabini was engaged in a heated argument with Head Auror Scamander. The Head Healer seemed to be arguing for keeping Cassiopeia in the Hogwarts hospital wing, or in St. Mungo's - "under security, of course," he assured the Head Auror, who was insisting she be detained immediately.

"There is no excuse for keeping a dangerous criminal with the victim of her illegal curse!" exploded Scamander. "As soon as everyone around here falls asleep, he'll be dead and she'll be long gone. She's a dangerous Dark witch, I tell you."

"You heard what she was saying, Theseus," said Zabini. "There is another explanation – it's just the accidental magic of an angry child raised amongst centuries-old stains of dark magic."

"Let's use veritaserum, then," said Scamander. "She'll be forced to tell the truth, and if she truly is innocent, she will remain here where her magic can be accessed again if need be. If she is guilty, we cross our fingers about the boy and escort her to a detainment cell. There will be a trial later with either result, of course, as a matter of principle – but both of us want the best for the injured boy."

"I agree," said Zabini. "The Auror Office will have some veritaserum in its stores, right, Theseus?"

"Better," said Scamander, and he pulled a tiny bottle from his robes. "I have some here, for emergencies. With the life of a child potentially in the balance, this is exactly the sort of situation I try to be prepared for. Three drops – and she's unconscious, so all the veritaserum will do is force truthful memories of what happened to the front of her mind; I'm a Legilimens; I'll go in and see what really happened."

"For that, you will only need two drops," Zabini cautioned. "Three might well cause unnecessary harm to her body as it tries to force her to answer verbally."

"Ah. Thanks." Scamander cracked Cassiopeia's mouth open slightly, delivering two drops of the truth-telling potion to her tongue. He then pointed his wand at her and intoned, " _Legilimens."_

A few minutes later he emerged from what had looked like a trance, shaking his head. "She is innocent," he declared. "She will remain here in Hogwarts."

Head Healer Zabini sighed. "She is only eleven years old, after all. I wonder how many witches and wizards will believe she is truly guilty."

"The boy's parents, I suspect," said Scamander. "Furious that their son was attacked with such a dark curse – there has only ever been one confirmed case of a child's accidental magic putting somebody else under the Deterioration Curse… for it to happen again, and in Hogwarts no less! Hogwarts, so often touted as the greatest European school of magic."

"Tom is an orphan," said Slughorn, speaking up once more.

"Such a shame," said Scamander.

"And about it happening in Hogwarts, too," added the Minister. Tom, if he had been able, would have jumped in shock. He'd thought she was long gone. "The other Ministries will think us Brits fools. Just what we need, as we enter war again."

"You really think Grindelwald will involve Britain?" asked Slughorn.

"Of course he will," said Head Auror Scamander. "Forgive me, Minister, but Grindelwald has been holed away in Austria for far too long, and with the Muggles at war – it'll come from them. Or rather, Grindelwald has been orchestrating their war, and he only wants to weaken us before he wages his own attack."

"Theseus," cautioned the Minister. "Some opinions are best not shared. I, too, think Grindelwald will attack us – but we don't want the population to panic, do we?"

Auror Scamander shook his head. "If only Dumbledore would listen-!"

"But he won't," said the Minister. "You, Theseus, should know."

Madame Carsley levitated Cassiopeia onto a hospital bed, the one next to Tom's, and erected privacy wards around the both of them. He could no longer see or hear the adults, and with nothing to do and a multitude of potions being pulled through his veins, slowly fell asleep.

He woke to a bright flash of light. "Wakey wakey!" called Madame Carsley. The wards were gone, and Cassiopeia, in the bed next-door, was sitting up, arms wrapped around her knees.

"Oh Tom," she said when she saw he had opened his eyes, "you look terrible! Your face is all squashed!"

And indeed when Tom brought up his hands to feel his face it was. "May I have a mirror, please?" he asked. Madame Carsley hesitated, but he tried his best to look pleading and apparently it worked, for she brought one. He moved his arm up to get it – and ha! he actually could! - and saw in the mirror the crushed remains of what once was his face, his lovely face. It was swollen, and his nose was now a misshapen lump of flesh and bone. In fact, his whole face was a misshapen lump of flesh and bone.

Cassiopeia was examining it, too. "Surely my fist alone could not have caused such damage?" she gasped.

"No," said Madame Carsley. "It was the curse. The potions should have restored your face to normal, Mr. Riddle, and I'm concerned, because it didn't. Do you have a history of bone or tissue disorders?"

"No," Tom answered.

"Magical Unresponsive Syndrome?"

"I don't know what that is."

"We'll assume not, but I'll get Professor Slughorn to brew the potion that tests for it. How about malnutrition?"

"Huh?"

"Do you, or have you ever, suffered from malnutrition or otherwise poor nutrition?"

"Don't think so."

"If you're not absolutely sure-"

Tom blinked in alarm. "No, I am, the answer is no!"

"Well, since it is the only thing other than MUS that could be causing your current condition we'll test for that, too. I'll ask Professor Slughorn for those potions, you stay here. Oh, and I've stationed a Prefect outside the door – there are quite a few students clamoring to see you both. You'll be allowed a few in at a time." Madame Carsley swept out of the room, and as she left, six people came in. Lucretia, and a number of other Blacks. They rushed to Cassiopeia's side, and Lucretia began to snap at the younger girl.

"You have brought shame upon our family, Cassie. It's in the papers and everything – _Hogwarts' First Year Brutally Attacks Muggleborn Student!_ Oh, Cassie, your parents are heartbroken, you'll never be invited to a gathering of society's best again, and little cousin Orion! You did not stop to think how your actions would affect him, he hasn't stopped crying since! You were one of his favourites, Cassie, how could you do a thing like that to him? Or Araminta, mind, she's been petitioning for your immediate expulsion. Not just from school, from the entire wizarding world! You'll be a muggle, Cassie, with your magic bound and your memory wiped! Araminta makes a good petition, I tell you, she's determined and clever."

"But cousin Lucretia!" Cassiopeia cried. "I didn't do it!"

"Did you not? Nobody else was there, Reinhard says he saw that boy, the one you attacked, just beforehand, you know Reinhard; Reinhard Lestrange, he was at the Malfoys' Yule celebration. How could you lie to me, Cassie, my little cousin, how could you lie to us all?"

"It was accidental magic, spontaneous magic. The sort only prodigies can control. So I wasn't controlling it, Lucretia, because apart from my blood – apart from my pedigree, cousin Lucretia, our pedigree, and it pains me to say it so - I am perfectly average!"

"Accidental!" Lucretia exclaimed. "But this is – Cassie, you must not be average after all, you are wonderful and powerful and I am honoured to have you be my cousin!"

The other Blacks stood around Cassiopeia and nodded, expressions ranging from excited to resentful. The older ones had pleasant smiles on their faces.

Lucretia tuned to Tom, and the excitement on her face vanished as soon as she saw him. Tom's heart seized up in a most uncharacteristic way. He was disgusting – she hated the site of him, he could see it in her eyes. They were distant and almost cruel. Her expression wilted, like a flower dying, but all sped up. Another of the Blacks knelt to talk to Cassiopeia, and Lucretia said, in a stilted sort of way, "you poor dear. Is this how you looked before the accident?"

Tom shrunk in on himself, outwardly snapping, "no, of course not, you fool! I was beautiful!"

And he had been, he thought, at least he had been going to be, when he was older. Everyone had said he was a gorgeous child who would be an attractive teenager who would be a stunning adult. Now, he was broken – worthless – even more that his muddy brown blood made him. At least when he was beautiful there was some worth to him even if it was trivial, but now? An ugly mudblood; he was an ugly mudblood, a hybrid, worse than being a muggle.

"Beautiful?" said Lucretia, a hint of a smile on her face. "I can't say I can imagine that."

No, Tom thought. He couldn't see a hint of what he once was in the mirror, and so, he imagined, neither could she. Out of the window flew his idea, a feverish idea from an exhausted mind, that he might be – really, truly Slytherin, more so that Malfoy or Lestrange or Cassiopeia or Lucretia Black. More so than anyone, anyone except Salazar Slytherin – and Tom's own father. If 'Tom' was a family name from a family like that, it was a name worth having – but surely if that were the case, his blood would heal him naturally? The blood of any real witch or wizard would – he had not seen any magical folk at all with unusual physical differences or deformities. No; Tom was a mudblood, nought but an ugly mudblood. And he would not ever be any sort of swan.

He glared at Lucretia, and she smirked back, perfectly Black and perfectly pureblood.


End file.
